


Five Times Trapper McIntyre Never Says 'I Love You'

by orphan_account



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2889989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Trapper doesn't say "I love you," and zero times he actually does. Hawkeye/Trapper, slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Trapper McIntyre Never Says 'I Love You'

One.

"Trap, please…" Hawkeye is pleading like a child. In the darkness of the supply tent, he's kissing him, fighting to pull off his scrubs.

"I'm as messed up as you are," Trapper tries to reason with him. "Sixteen hours, Hawk. I'm too tired to even try to get it up."

"Please, Trap." Fists are balled in the front of his shirt and Hawkeye buries his face in the crook of his neck. "I can't get it out of my head, Trap. It's burned onto my eyelids. Every time I blink I can see it."

"See what, Hawk?" He tries to rub the tension out of Hawkeye's shoulders. "See what?"

"Private Johnson."

Trapper falls silent and presses his cheek against Hawkeye's hair. Hawkeye worked for three hours on one kid who'd been brought in with nearly his whole face blown off. What had been left was full of shrapnel, mud, and sick.

"I can't get it out of my head, Trap," Hawkeye says again. "We're not soldiers, we're butchers. We're not men, we're animals."

Trapper gives in and tries to stop the mad raving before it gets out of control. He's seen Hawkeye lose it before and he doesn't want to see it again, not over this. He kisses Hawkeye hard, hoping to slow the shaking. Somewhere within himself he finds the strength to bend Hawkeye over, to make his hands work long enough to fumble with the rubber. It must be a miracle that keeps him from fainting on the floor of the supply tent.

Hawkeye sobs the whole time. When it's over, Trapper pretends he didn't hear a thing and holds him close as they lean against the supply shelves.

"That was great, Trap." Hawkeye must be too tired to smile like he means it.

"Yeah, it was," Trapper lies, squeezing him hard on the shoulder. "C'mon, let's see if we can make it back to the Swamp without a stretcher."

* * *

Two.

In a seedy hotel room somewhere in the heart of Tokyo, Hawkeye stands before him wearing nothing but aftershave and a silk happi coat, so short he has to cross his legs to keep covered. His skinny thighs are bared like a hot-to-trot geisha. Although really, Trapper thinks, a geisha would have a lot more class.

Trapper digs his fingers into those thighs when Hawkeye kisses him, so hard he knows it'll leave bruises.

"Like what you see, Trap?" Hawkeye can't ever stop talking. He runs at the mouth the whole time. "Havin' fun pullin' my hair, Trap?" He says as Trapper seizes a handful of it from behind and yanks his head back. "You like bein' rough on me?"

"Can it, will ya?" Trapper says, trying to ignore the narration.

The happi coat falls down Hawkeye's back and bunches in loose rolls around his shoulders. Trapper pulls out and shoves Hawkeye onto his back. The face that stares up at him is voracious with want, but grinning like an idiot.

"Give it to me hard, Trap," he continues to babble even as Trapper throws one of his legs over his shoulder and hoists the other up under his armpit. "You won't hurt me, Trap. C'mon, nice and hard."

A short, shallow thrust silences him for a moment, so Trapper gives him more of the same. His heart races as Hawkeye's steady stream of banter gives way to ragged moans. There aren't any words at all when he cries out and finishes into Trapper's fist, and not for some time afterward when he curls up beside him and trails his fingertips over Trapper's chest. In the dim yellow evening light, Hawkeye almost looks pretty. With his mouth shut, the illusion is even more believable.

"Gave it to ya pretty good, didn't I?" Trapper risks breaking the silence.

Hawkeye nods, tired and sated, and for a moment Trapper thinks he might be ready to tell him the next thing that comes to mind, until Hawkeye's dumb mouth opens again and he says, "I bet you've never done it to your wife like that."

Trapper sighs and keeps his thoughts to himself.

* * *

Three.

Margie Cutler spurns him for so much as a kiss, and he chases her out of post-op into the compound and demands to know why.

"It's bad enough that you're not faithful to your wife, but I don't think it's right to do that to Hawkeye, too," she says with a completely straight face.

"What are you talkin' about?" he forces a laugh through the nerves that are trying to make his voice shake. "I mean, I know he's a little this-a-way that-a-way, I'll give you that, but I don't think there's any guys in camp  _that_  desperate."

She crosses her arms. "He told me all about it, Trapper. And I happen to think it's very sweet."

He hardly hears her add, "He cares about you a lot," as he storms off to the Swamp, almost in a sprint. Hawkeye is nearly comatose in his cot, but managing to hold his martini glass upright by the time Trapper lurches over him.

"Are you completely out of your mind?!" He shouts at the figure below him.

"Is that really a question you need to ask?" Hawkeye laughs out loud at what might be a joke.

"Just where do you get off telling Margie about… about…" He tries to pick and choose the right thing to say, tries to talk himself out of simply slapping the careless smile off of Hawkeye's stupid face. He settles for words instead of fists. "I don't care what you tell people about yourself, I don't care if you're trying to get a Section 8, whatever. Just leave me out of it. I am  _no queer_! Got it?!"

Hawkeye's smile begins to fade, and then disappears completely when the door swings open and Frank rears his head.

"Hi Frank…" Trapper sighs.

"I'd like to see you say that to me in front of General Clayton," Frank says smugly. Then he adds, "What are you two degenerates whooping and hollering about this time? I can hear you halfway across the compound."

"None of your beeswax, Frank," Hawkeye slurs and spills his gin trying to sit up.

"Look at you. Completely drunk in the middle of the day." Frank seems to be channeling John Winthrop again today, and it makes Trapper's blood boil even hotter. "You're really a mess, you know that? We've all seen atrocities here, but you're the only one who can't seem to handle it without your liquid crutch."

Now Hawkeye looks like someone really has slapped him. Trapper finds himself with two fistfuls of Frank's jacket, and a ferrety, lipless face an inch away from his own.

"Talk to him like that again, Frank, and I swear to God I'll pull your spine out through your asshole," he says.

Frank whimpers when Trapper releases him. He stares back at him for a moment, and then bursts right back out the door, probably running to Hot Lips' tent to whine about his mistreatment.

Trapper's breathing heavy, but trying to catch himself. He turns to Hawkeye and sits on the edge of his cot.

"What a jerk," He says, trying to bring back Hawkeye's smile. "I hope he falls in the latrine."

"What's the matter, worried he's gonna cut in on your action?" Hawkeye sneers, and he's not kidding. "Gotta keep your place as the only guy in camp allowed to make me feel about as loved as an e. coli culture?"

"Hawk…" Trapper squeezes his thigh, tries to give him the attention he knows Hawkeye likes. "I'm sorry for what I said. What can I do to make it up to you?"

"Sit on a hand grenade," Hawkeye says, thoughtfully. "Talk a nice stroll through the mine field."

"Hawkeye…" He takes his free hand and kisses the back of it. "Don't be that way. Frank'll be gone for hours, I'm sure."

"Good for Frank," Hawkeye says. He yanks his hand free, then reaches up and pours what's left of his martini into Trapper's lap. The olive lands right in his crotch. When he's done, he rolls over on his cot and pulls his bathrobe over his ear.

"Hawkeye…" Trapper buries his face in his hands, wondering if now's really the time to say it. Why not, he thinks, but when he tries to speak, he says, "I really can't stand you sometimes," instead and immediately regrets even trying.

Hawkeye doesn't move and doesn't speak for a few beats. Then, with a soft, somber voice, he says, "That's sweet. I feel the same way about you."

* * *

Four.

In the quietest, darkest hours of the night, Hawkeye slips out of his cot and across the tent, and eases the blanket down Trapper's body without moving from the floor.

"Hawk-," Trapper mumbles into the stillness.

"Shh!" Hawkeye tilts his face forward and kisses him through his boxer shorts, waking him up without fail.

"What about Frank?" Trapper hisses, his voice feeling loud enough to wake all of Korea.

"I'll get to him, but you're first. Lucky fella," Hawkeye says. Trapper can practically hear the saccharine in his smile. A moment later, Hawkeye is tugging at the waistband of his shorts and trailing his lips delicately.

There's no fighting him. There never is and never was— not in this particular moment, not those long months ago the first time Hawkeye pretended not to hear the half-hearted protests about being a husband and a father. Trapper knows he's putty in Hawkeye's hands sometimes, especially in moments like this.

A sliver of moonlight illuminates Hawkeye staring up at him, unblinking as the hot, soft mouth engulfs him. Hawkeye's so damn good at this, and in only a few moments Trapper has to cover his mouth with his hand to keep from calling out his name and waking Frank. His other hand holds a fistful of sleek black hair. He holds harder than he probably should, but it only makes Hawkeye quicken his pace, deepen his gulps so that his lips are pressed right up against Trapper's body.

Trapper whimpers into his palm, and his focus darts from the glinting eyes gazing up at him to the (imagined?) rustle from Frank's cot.

All at once Hawkeye slows, almost stops. This must be his punishment for not giving him his undivided attention, Trapper thinks, and a moment later he's not thinking at all because Hawkeye is doing unspeakable things with the tip of his tongue and his reddened lips.

"Don't tease me, Hawkeye," Trapper whispers through his fingertips. He tightens his grasp on Hawkeye's hair and forces his head back down, pushing his hips forward to meet the open lips. By now he's fucking Hawkeye's mouth, and Hawkeye is letting him, hardly missing a beat even though his eyes finally close when Trapper starts getting too rough. He coughs a little when Trapper comes in his throat, sits back on his haunches and tries to keep it out of his lungs.

By now it's more than just a rustle from Frank's cot. He sits upright and seems to be looking in their direction. Trapper freezes where he is, hoping that the tent is dark enough to obscure them from his sight. Finally after a few moments, Frank lays back down.

"That was too close," Trapper whispers when Frank's rhythmic snoring starts up again. A moment later, Hawkeye's lips are pressed against his. He can taste himself on his mouth.

"Sorry," Hawkeye says when he pulls away.

"For what?" Trapper asks, searching for those lips again in the dark. He catches Hawkeye's jaw and pulls him close again, kissing him softly and smoothing his long hair out of his face.

"Sometimes when I can't sleep, I get to thinking about how much I like you and I just can't stop myself from reaching over and touching you," Hawkeye whispers.

"You call that touching?" Trapper whispers back. "I s'pose you'd like me to go ahead and  _touch_  you a little bit too, then."

"Nah, you don't need to," Hawkeye leans against the edge of the cot, pushing against Trapper's hand like a cat. There's only the gentle ambience of the camp at night as Trapper strokes Hawkeye's hair. All at once, the moment seems fleeting. There's a tightening in his chest, and the words seem to rise to his lips on their own.

"Hawk-," he says.

"Trap-," Hawkeye says at the exact same time. He gives a short, single laugh. "You go first."

"I just went first. You go," Trapper says.

Hawkeye nods a little. "I guess it's pretty funny. But you really mean so much to me, Trap. You're the best thing that's happened to me in this whole rotten, stinking war."

Trapper's heart beats so hard he wonders whether Hawkeye can hear it over the stillness. He waits to hear him say it first to he can echo it back. He waits and waits for words that never come.

"What were  _you_  gonna say?" Hawkeye asks at last.

"Ah. The same thing, I guess," Trapper says. It isn't a lie. It isn't the truth.

* * *

Five.

Tall grass sways softly in the warm spring breeze. It obscures them from view, and obscures the rest of the world too, so all that exists are those soft lips smiling down at him.

What is it about him that makes him so easy to trust? Trapper wonders. There must be something about his tired, deadpan voice that can calm the most shell-shocked wounded soldier. Something about the unshaven face, the sad eyes that can look right through a guy and still seem to focus right where it really matters, that makes it so effortless to open up to him. Hawkeye Pierce knows how to get under anyone's skin, how to tunnel into the most secret parts of a person, and how to dig in deep once he gets there. It must have been how he'd managed to have his way with a good number of the nurses within the camp, not to mention a handful of the enlisted men who'd passed through. And, Trapper thinks, it must be why he's on his back somewhere in a field in the middle of Korea, with his pants around his ankles and Hawkeye's hand disappearing between his thighs.

He can't look at what Hawkeye is doing to him, so he looks at the sky instead, gazing at the wispy clouds and watching them move by, oblivious to the men making love in the field below them, or to the other men dying in battle only a few miles away.

Making love… Is that really what this is? Trapper shudders hard as Hawkeye pushes his fingers deeper. Could something so degenerate even be called that? No, Trapper tells himself. Making love is what he does with his wife on their anniversary, not what he does with Hawkeye during the lulls between putting wounded back together. There's supposed to be champagne and rose petals when you make love, not rotgut moonshine and a pilfered tube of surgical lubricant.

"You're too tense," Hawkeye says, shaking him from his daydream. "If you relax a little, you'll enjoy it more."

"So you've said," Trapper replies. He dares to look away from the clouds to Hawkeye's face. Blue eyes cut into him like bone saws.

"Maybe we should call it a day," Hawkeye says, like he doesn't care either way. But Trapper knows him too well. He does care, and what he cares about is whether Trapper feels good, whether Trapper is comfortable.

"I'll try to relax," he promises.

There it is—the sweet smile that Trapper wishes existed only for him. Hawkeye bends down and kisses him wetly on his mouth the way he seems to know makes Trapper too hot to argue.

This time Trapper lets himself look at Hawkeye. He forgets the clouds to watch him dip his hand forward again, and then closes his eyes altogether when he curls his fingers back.

"How's that?" Hawkeye asks.

"Not bad," Trapper grunts through clenched teeth, trying to stay composed.

"Not bad!" Hawkeye laughs out loud and does it again, and Trapper would say something smart right back at him if he could, but what Hawkeye's doing to him feels too good. It feels better than anything like it should—surgeons' skilled fingertips massaging him from the inside. He hates himself for loving it, but loves Hawkeye enough not to hate it. Funny, he thinks. He'd never guessed he could trust anyone enough to go this far, to give up so much of himself.

The sharp, piercing blueness is there when he cries out and grabs Hawkeye's sleeve, although he isn't sure if it's the sky or Hawkeye's eyes filling his vision. He gasps for breath and tries not to blush when he realizes that he's just come all over his stomach.

"What do you say, Trap?" Hawkeye wipes his fingers off on the wool blanket they're lying on. "Was that good enough to keep going?"

He's lost count of the times he's said no. But Hawkeye never seems to get too tired of his excuses, never seems to get discouraged by his protests of being a father and a husband, and  _just what kind of father and husband takes it up the rear from his army buddy, not that I think any less of_ you _for it, Hawk…_

"Yeah, okay," he says, so softly he wonders if Hawkeye even hears him. But he does, and he's tugging Trapper's pants the rest of the way off before Trapper can even think to repeat it. He's grinning, beaming like he did when they all thought the war had ended.

Trapper's heart is lodged in his throat as he watches Hawkeye moving so fast he nearly drops the rubber he's trying to put on, and he tells himself it's the only thing stopping him from saying it out loud once and for all. He wants to go tell it on the mountain when Hawkeye settles between his thighs and penetrates him for the first time. He wants to telegraph it to General MacArthur when Hawkeye is grunting and biting his lip, mumbling "Aw, Trap, you feel amazing."

And he almost does.

"Hawk…" He opens his mouth to say it, and Hawkeye claps his palm over it before he can get another word out.

"Wait!" he hisses, freezing. He lays heavily on Trapper's chest, silent and still.

Footsteps crunch in the grass somewhere in the distance, getting closer quickly.

"Damn!" Hawkeye punches the ground as he rolls off of him and they both race to pull on their clothes.

"It's alright, Hawk. Another time," Trapper says, still delirious. He's too wobbly to get his pants back over his boots so Hawkeye throws the blanket over him and tries to look casual sitting on the bare ground.

"Captain Pierce? Captain McIntyre?" Bespectacled eyes squint over the tall grass at them. "Just havin' a little picnic?" Radar asks, as if he doesn't know exactly what they'd been doing before he found them.

"Sure Radar, just a nice, heterosexual picnic between two good friends with  _no interruptions_." Hawkeye's too glib when he's mad, Trapper thinks.

"What'd you follow us all the way out here for?" Trapper says, wondering if the blanket will dry and stick to his skin.

"Incoming wounded, sir," he says, ignoring Hawkeye's comment, but remembering it for sure. "About 20 minutes out. Maybe 15 now."

"Damn!" Hawkeye repeats and punches the ground again.

"Look, we'll find our own way back to camp," Trapper says, pulling himself together faster than Hawkeye, even though he was the one on his back.

"Yes sirs," Radar nods and turns to leave, but stops and turns back. "I won't tell anyone, sirs," he adds.

"Won't tell anyone what, Radar?" Trapper asks.

"That-…" Radar blushes too hard to say any more and takes off instead.

When the footsteps grow quiet, Trapper sighs and finishes pulling the rest of his clothes on. Hawkeye stays on the ground with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging low.

"Let's go," Trapper says, waiting. "We'll pick up where we left off as soon as this is over."

"Yeah, in 12 hours. _If_  we're lucky," Hawkeye says. "Anyway, it's not the same."

"How do you figure?" Spent as he is, he squats next to Hawkeye and drapes his arm over his shoulders, pulling him to his feet and brushing the dust and grass off of his pants. They'll come back for the stuff, he decides, or maybe send Radar back out for it.

"This was supposed to be a nice day," Hawkeye says. "I wanted to make your first time something really special."

"Well, that's the thing about war, Hawk. Nothin' about it is convenient." When Hawkeye won't walk, he tries to drag him. "Nobody ever gets exactly what they want."

"Except the murderers in charge of this whole crumby thing."

Trapper's not in the mood for pouting. He stops and lets go of Hawkeye's arm. "How do you think those kids they're bringin' in with their bellies fulla lead feel about it? Huh?" He can't say what he wanted to say earlier, but he adds, "How do you think _I_  feel?"

After a moment, Hawkeye starts to walk. He walks ahead of Trapper by a few paces and doesn't say anything.

Trapper follows right behind him, silent as well, wondering how he ever thought he'd really be able to tell Hawkeye this time. How he ever will. He watches Hawkeye ahead of him, sees the tension already starting to creep into his shoulders, the grey in his hair seeming to spread by the minute. Even if he never says it, he'd still like to make sure Hawkeye knows.

"C'mon, wait up, Hawk," he says, running the few paces between them and throwing his arm over Hawkeye's shoulder. "What do ya say? After this is over I'll treat you to the finest surplus powdered eggs and coffee-flavored cesspool water you've ever had."

Hawkeye tries to keep brooding but can't stop his smile from coming out again. "I can't, I promised my mother I'd be home by 1951. Or midnight. Whichever comes first." He puts his head on Trapper's shoulder, and his hand in Trapper's back pocket.

One day, Trapper promises himself. One day, just not today.


End file.
